Category: Edna St. Vincent Millay

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

  As I went walking up and down to take the evening air,
    (Sweet to meet upon the street, why must I be so shy?)
  I saw him lay his hand upon her torn black hair;
    

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by Edna St. Vincent Millay

SONNETS (from Second April)

     I

     We talk of taxes, and I call you friend;
     Well, such you are,—but well enough we know
     How thick about us root, how rankly grow
     Those subtle weeds no man 

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by Edna St. Vincent Millay

     Butterflies are white and blue
     In this field we wander through.
     Suffer me to take your hand.
     Death comes in a day or two.

     All the things we ever knew
     Will be ashes in that 

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by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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by Edna St. Vincent Millay

     [VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918]
     Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats,
       Where now no more the music is,
     With hands that wrote you little notes
       I write you little elegies!

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by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain,—
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.
People dress and go 

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by Edna St. Vincent Millay

  Cut if you will, with Sleep's dull knife,
    Each day to half its length, my friend,—
  The years that Time takes off my life,
    He'll take from off the other end!

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by Edna St. Vincent Millay

     To what purpose, April, do you return again?
     Beauty is not enough.
     You can no longer quiet me with the redness
     Of little leaves opening stickily.
     I know what I know.
     The sun is hot 

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by Edna St. Vincent Millay

       Aye, but she?
       Your other sister and my other soul
       Grave Silence, lovelier
       Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her?
       Clio, not you,
       Not you, Calliope,
       Nor all your wanton line,
       Not Beauty's perfect 

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by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I'll keep a little tavern
Below the high hill's crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
May set them down and rest.
There shall be plates a-plenty,
And mugs to melt the chill
Of all the grey-eyed 

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